fold more revolting. Twice Carthew raised the pistol, once he pressed the trigger (or thought he did) with all his might, but no explosion followed; and with that the lees of his courage ran quite out, and he turned and fled from before his victim.
Wicks sat on the fore hatch, raised the face of a man of seventy, and looked a wordless question. Carthew shook his head. With such composure as a man displays marching towards the gallows, Wicks arose, walked to the scuttle, and went down. Brown thought it was Carthew returning, and discovered himself, half crawling from his shelter, with another incoherent burst of pleading. Wicks emptied his revolver at the voice, which broke into mouse-like whimperings and groans. Silence succeeded, and the murderer ran on deck like one possessed.
The other three were now all gathered on the fore hatch, and Wicks took his place beside them without question asked or answered. They sat close, like children in the dark, and shook each other with their shaking. The dusk continued to fall; and there was no sound but the beating of the surf and the occasional hiccup of a sob from Tommy Hadden.
“God, if there was another ship!” cried Carthew of a sudden.
Wicks started and looked aloft with the trick of all seamen, and shuddered as he saw the hanging figure on the royal yard.
“If I went aloft, I'd fall,” he said simply. “I'm done up.”
It was Amalu who volunteered, climbed to the very truck, swept the fading horizon, and announced nothing within sight.
“No odds,” said Wicks. “We can't sleep ...”
“Sleep!” echoed Carthew; and it seemed as if the
